A TALE. 73

On the lyre, he pointed at you,

Perched his partner in the prize;
Never more apart you found
Her, he throned, from him, she crowned.

That’s the tale: its application ?
Somebody I know

Hopes one day for reputation
Through his poetry that’s — Oh,

All so learned and so wise

And deserving of a prize!

If he gains one, will some ticket,

When his statue’s built,
Tell the gazer “’T'was a cricket

Helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt
Sweet and low, when strength usurped
Softness’ place i’ the scale, she chirped ?

“ For as victory was nighest,
While I sang and played, —
With my lyre at lowest, highest,
Right alike, — one string that made
‘Love’ sound soft was snapt in twain,
Never to be heard again, —

“ Had not a kind cricket fluttered,
Perched upon the place

Vacant left, and duly uttered
‘Love, Love, Love,’ whene’er the bass